


"The Despair Set In"

by canyouseemyspark



Series: Dorne [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, First Kiss, Injury, Minor Character Death, Minor canon divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canyouseemyspark/pseuds/canyouseemyspark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of a prince of Dorne, told in three parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'Til Sunbeams Find You

**Author's Note:**

> The first part is focused primarily on Trystane in order to establish his identity and the various forces in Dorne which have shaped him as a person but in the next two parts his relationship with Myrcella will become central to the story.
> 
> There's some minor canon divergence, in particular when it comes to dates so events might be spaced out slightly differently than they were in the books. For example, I moved up Quentyn's fostering with the Yronwoods in order to explore his relationship with his brother.

The night before Myrcella arrived, Tyene came to visit. She dined with Sylva Santagar and Arianne in the courtyard. Trystane completed his lessons early that day – for once – and Prince Doran, as a reward, sent him to sit with his sister, his cousin, and their friend.

 _What kind of reward is this?_ Trystane thought as he pushed down the food on his plate, turning the sweet potatoes into an unrecognizable orange mush.

As usual, they were talking about people he never met, places he didn’t know, adventures he wouldn’t go on until he was older, like Quentyn.

Often when he was particularly bored or miserable – as he most certainly was now –Trystane would imagine what his brother was doing. He was at Yronwood Castle now, probably practicing his fencing or dining as well. Maybe Lord Anders receives a raven ( _Dark wings, dark words_ as the older people said) warning him that there were intruders at the Boneway, that they had stolen in from the Stormlands and they were riding towards Kingsgrave, or maybe Blackmont. Lord Anders rushes to tell his truest knight and Quentyn, who always had his sword nearby, jumpes on his steed and rides due north followed by Cletus and Archibald.

It would be a difficult battle. They would be outnumbered three to one and the Yronwoods would certainly try to help but Quentyn would bring them down all on his own. Even in victory, he would be merciful – he kills the ones with severe injuries to spare them any more pain and takes the others as prisoners to Lord Anders. They would all cheer when he would return triumphant but Quentyn would say that he merely did his duty and that he would be willing to lay down his life in defense of Dorne. _I wonder if he’s thinking of me right now as I think of him_ , Trystane thought.

“Trys, what are you smiling about?” Arianne’s voice broke into his reverie.

Tyene laughed, “Perhaps he’s dreaming about his betrothed.”

“No I wasn’t!” Trystane exclaimed, indignant.

Truly, he hadn’t thought much about Myrcella since his father told him of the match months ago. She was only nine years old and they wouldn’t be married for years yet. Arianne said that most girls didn’t flower until they were twelve or thirteen. Trystane wasn’t sure what flowering entailed exactly but he was grateful it would give him a few years of reprieve from married life.

“You ought to give her a kiss, welcome her to Dorne,” Tyene teased.

“He’s only eleven,” Sylva interjected.

Trystane was very fond of Sylva. She was always the one to stand up for him when Arianne and her friends were bothering him. And, like her, he had freckles on his face although thankfully his case was not quite as severe.

“He wouldn’t be a true Dornishman if he hadn’t kissed at least three girls by his tenth name day,”  Tyene continued.

“That’s not true,” Trystane frowned, “Quentyn said—”

She interrupted with a laugh, “Ah, there lies the root of the problem, cousin! You ought to spend less time listening to that idiot brother of yours and more time with us if you’re marrying a daughter of Cersei Lannister.”

“Don’t talk about Quentyn like that!” Trystane snapped, pushing his plate away so that most of the food scattered across the table.

“Calm yourself,” Tyene laughed, “Why do you defend him so? There’s more of a Sand Snake in you than a knight of Dorne, little lad.”

“Quentyn’s worth ten of you!” Trystane shouted, rising to his feet.

“Have you lost your wits?” Arianne snapped, “How dare you speak to her like that? I ought to go find father and tell him how badly you’ve been behaving. He ought to lock you up in your room and take your steed away from you until you learn how to be a true prince.”

Trystane nearly replied with some cruel jape about Arianne’s own temper and stubbornness which caused constant exasperation for their father but he stilled his tongue. Instead, he thought of his brother. The day before Quentyn left, Trystane had begged father to allow them to share their chambers for the night. They talked until dawn that day, mainly of mother who had left only a week earlier, but what Trystane most remembered was Quentyn’s advice only hours before he left: “You can choose who you want to be, Trys,” he said, “They say all Dornishmen are hot blooded like uncle Oberyn – inspiring fear in one half of the kingdom and bedding the other. But a true Dornish prince is like father, cautious and guarded. You must always do your best to please him, to act as he would do. Tame the viper within you and you’ll bring honor to our house.”

He bowed his head deferentially, like Quentyn would have done.

“Forgive me, my ladies,” He said, politely, “I spoke out of turn.”

He fought hard to conceal his grin at seeing the startled looks on their faces.

“It’s forgiven, cousin, I’m sure you were so terribly foul-mouthed because you’re anxious to meet your betrothed on the morrow,” Tyene grinned, “They say she’s very beautiful, just like her mother. Perhaps it’s better after all that you wish to be a prudish prig like Quentyn, I doubt Prince Doran will be very approving of little Lannister bastards splashing in the Water Gardens.” 

Trystane turned and ran through the courtyard and into his room, slamming the door behind him with a loud thud.

 

When Trystane returned to his rooms that night, he considered running away. He could sneak into the kitchens and steal a few loaves of bread, then run past the guards and into the stables where he would mount his steed and take off for Yronwood Castle. It would be a hard journey and he might meet some ruffians on the road ( _I’ll have to take a sword and a spear with me too, I suppose,_ he thought) but perhaps if he defeated them, he would be allowed to serve as Lord Andres’ page and be knighted by him as Quentyn had.

As much as he wished to be with his brother, he knew Quentyn might turn him away and send him back. He would be upset that Trystane had acted so unwisely, argue that his place was with his father and it was his duty to remain there.

Trystane kicked off his shoes and lay down on his bed, intending to formulate a better plan. He thought of the land of the three bells, the rolling hills, the caravans and the dancing bears. He would have to somehow find a way to get passage to the Stepstones, and from there make his way to Braavos. Perhaps he would scrape off some of the gems from his belt, maybe even sell his books and spear if it came to it. After arriving at Braavos, he would sail to Myr and then take the land route to Norvos.

His mother would be there, waiting for him.

When he was child, he would play the hiding game with his siblings and with mother. One person had to hide while the others looked for them. Each person that found “the hider” also concealed themselves in the same spot until only one was left. This remaining seeker, as punishment for his inability to find the others, would be made to eat the orange peppers which grew on the shores of the Greenblood rivers and which sent an blazing pain through the mouth, nose, ears, and eyes of anyone who consumed them.

Trystane hated being the hider. It was frightening to go through the castle all alone but worse of all was when it took them to long to find him. One of his earliest memories was of the day a few weeks after his fifth nameday. He was hiding underneath his father’s bed but no one came for him. He thought he had been forgotten, that they tricked him so they could do something else without him, and he began to sob. A few moments later his mother ran into the room, taking him into her arms. He could still remember how he felt in her embrace, the smell of gillyflowers in her hair. As she soothed his tears, she told him that no matter how far away he felt, she would always be able to find him.

He imagined running to the gates of Norvos where she would be waiting for him. She would take him to her home, would show him the city he had heard so many stories about. He would beg her not to send word to father, to allow him to stay with her forever.

Father. While Trystane wanted desperately to be reunited with his brother and mother, he feared his father’s disapproval with the same vigor of sentiment. It would be one thing to have Prince Doran scream at him, to yell or even beat him. But whenever Trystane misbehaved, Doran would reprehend them with the same cool tone he always used, with disappointment heavy in his eyes. Bruises would heal and tempers cooled but his father’s unhappiness festered in Trystane’s chest.

He pulled the blankets around him and fell asleep to a restless night of strange dreams and painful memories.

\---------

He was still surprised sometimes to see how little like a princess Myrcella truly was. At first, she kept mainly to her rooms and only emerged when she had to, for meals or to be presented to the other lords of Dorne. Trystane quite liked it that way, he went through his day in fairly the same manner as he had before – breaking his fast with his father, attending to his lessons, practicing his archery and sword-fighting in the afternoon, coming back to the gardens to eat before continuing his lessons and ending the day with a short ride by the sea.

He had seen Myrcella maybe twice or three times while Arianne spent almost every day with her, going to her rooms in the mornings and bringing with her a book or a little trinket. His father suggested that he go as well but when he met Arianne on the stairs on the way to Myrcella’s room, she said that Myrcella was homesick, crying for her mother and brothers, and it was best that Trystane not visit her now. That was all he needed to hear and he bounded back down the stairs to find one of the stable boys to saddle his steed.

 

“Ow Trystane, you got sand in my eye!”

Trystane looked over to see the princess with one of her hands covering her right eye and the other behind her back. They started their day by making sand castles but soon they went to the rock caves near the coast and began exploring, making mud pies and trying to aim for each other. 

Trystane slowly walked over to the crying princess. As he reached over to comfort her, she snaked the hand forward from behind her back and hit him straight in face with a particularly big mud pie before running away giggling. He wiped away most of it with the sleeve of his shirt before chasing after her with a laugh.

 

Within a month of her arrival, he now considered Myrcella to be one of his closest friends. She always agreed to play games with him when he was bored or go swimming in the pools, and even though she spent most of her days with Arianne she always made time for him. It made the days go by quicker to have someone to talk to or imagine adventures with. It made it all the better that she was one of the only people he knew who could play cyvasse.

Their first true conversation happened across a cyvasse board. It was Myrcella’s seventh day in Dorne and father had made Trystane ask the princess to join him so they might know each other better. As always, Arianne was sitting nearby.

“There are ten different pieces, and each one does something different,” Trystane explained, “There’s the dragon, the elephant, the heavy horse, the spear, the king, the crossbow, the rabble, the light horse, the catapult and the trebuchet.”

“The dragon is the most powerful?” Myrcella asked softly. 

“Yes, but you can only use one of them. You’re better off with elephants, you can have more than one.”

She reached shyly to arrange her pieces.

“That’s the dragon, you want the elephant,” Trystane amended, offering her his elephant pieces.

“It’s alright, I want to try it like this first,” She stated, blushing.

Trystane shrugged and aligned his own pieces. _I suppose now I’ll just beat her faster,_ he thought.

She placed her dragons near the mountains, forcing him to go all the way around with his catapults in order to reach her. By the time he moved his crossbows and spears, she had eaten all three of his elephants and left his king unprotected. With one swift movement, the king too was knocked off the board and she had won.

“Forgive me, my lord,” She said meekly, averting her eyes from his.

“Forgive you for what?” He asked, putting all the pieces carefully into their ornate wooden boxes.

“No,” She replied, fidgeting with her hands, “I should not have won so brazenly, I should have given you a chance to destroy the dragon when I got close to your trebuchet.”

“Are you apologizing for winning?” Trystane asked.

 _I’ll never understand girls_ , he thought.

She looked over at Arianne who nodded in response, as though telling her that it was alright for her to continue.

“It’s only that sometimes when I played with Joffrey, he would get really angry when I won and it would scare me,” She explained, still not meeting his eyes, “And Tommen always cries so I started losing on purpose, it was easier that way.”

Tommen frowned. Father always said that he had to always be careful what he said about all the noble lords and ladies, and the king and his mother most of all. He was silent for a few moments as he thought of an appropriate answer.

“Well, I don’t mind,” Trystane replied, “As long as you don’t cheat.”

Myrcella smiled, “Do you want to play again?”

\---------

Trystane sat outside his father’s solar and watched as Arianne stormed out of the room, her face red in anger. Areo Hotah stood by the door and motioned for Trystane to come in. He always liked Areo, he was from Norvos like mother and even though he didn’t say much, Trystane always felt safer to have him around.

Father was sitting on his chair, heavily padded with feather pillows, his swollen feet resting on an ottoman. He faced the window and looked out at the sea, the ever pensive look on his face.

Trystane slowly approached. Frantically he tried to remember the lines his tutor had made him memorize.

“I’m sorry for your loss, father,” Trystane recited, “May his soul rest beneath the sun, protected by the sands of Dorne.”

“Thank you, Trystane,” His father smiled faintly.

He motioned for Trystane to come closer and he sat at his father’s feet, resting his head on the ottoman.

“I had three brothers once, and a sister,” Doran said, his eyes focused on the scene outside his window, “And now only I remain.”

Trystane reached over and touched his father’s hand, gently, so it wouldn’t hurt him.

Doran continued, “I had a wife once, two sons and a daughter. My wife is gone, my son too, and I fear my daughter is lost to me.”

It was strange to him to hear his father speak so. Many times Doran would call for Trystane only to have his youngest son sit beside him, watching the other child splash in the fountains, or he would ask Trystane to read him a book. He asked about his studies and his friends but Trystane was unaccustomed to his father opening up so.

“I’m still here, father,” Trystane murmured.

“Yes lad, you are here. But perhaps you are the one who wishes to leave the most,” Doran replied, his inflamed fingers softly squeezing his son’s hand.

His father smiled again but it was a strange smile, a sad one which made Trystane suddenly want to weep. 

Doran continued, “We will leave for Sunspear on the morrow, return to your rooms and pack your belongings, child.”


	2. Some are born to endless night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kisses and maidens, and fire and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with the first chapter, dates have been slightly shuffled around as well as certain details (i.e. Myrcella returning to Sunspear instead of the Water Gardens after her failed crowning) for the purpose of the story.

Trystane should have sensed something was wrong.

He went to visit Myrcella that day, as he had every day since they moved to Sunspear. There was little to do here – there were no water gardens to swim in and it was too dangerous to go to the sea alone – and he was growing tired of the smell of dust, horses, and sweat which drifted into the Tower of the Sun.

Today, there was a Dornish guard at her door, telling him that the princess had redspots and none could be brought to see her until she recovered. Some of his cousins had remained at the Water Gardens so he couldn’t ask any of them to join him for a game of cyvasse, or to explore the rest of the palace. He tried to find Sylva or Garin in the courtyards to no avail so he climbed the stairs up to Arianne’s chamber. _I suppose if they’re there I’ll have to invite her too_ , he thought, _And Drey as well probably_. But his sisters’ rooms were empty.

Last of all, he went to find his father.

He approached his chambers and saw a different man than Areo Hotah guarding the door. As he stepped forward to walk past him, the new guard stepped towards the door to bar his entry.

“Your father is busy, Prince Trystane,” He stated, “He takes no visitors today.”

Trystane frowned, annoyed.

“Father always lets me sit with him,” He stated flatly, trying to step into the chambers only to be rebuffed once again.

_If Areo was here,_ Trystane thought,  _he would let me in._

“Not today.”

He thought of trying to enter the chambers but thought otherwise, wary of disturbing his father and being punished for it. Instead, he turned and went back to the corner of the palace which housed his chambers alongside those of Myrcella and Arianne. For a moment he considered going in Arianne's room and perhaps looking for a love letter or uncovering some other outrageous piece of information which he could tease her with later, or maybe making some present for Myrcella to give to her when she recovered.

However, the incessant heat made him lazy and lethargic so instead he went to his chambers and lay down in his bed. As he watched the sunbeams play on the ceiling, reflecting through the silk canopies and the sheer fabric of the curtains, he tried to stay awake by reciting his lessons from earlier that day.

For what seemed like the hundredth time, he had been tested on all the names of the great houses, their words, and their sigil (Arianne would be the princess of Dorne one day, Quentyn would be a knight, and Trystane would remain the little one – what did he care for the names of lords he would never meet, places he would never go?). His tutor would make him stand in the center of the room, reciting them in order. 

It used to be Maester Caleotte at the Water Gardens but now it was Maester Myles. Trystane liked him, when he was bored in lessons he would try to think of what scent this young maester had perfumed his beard with that day. Whenever Trystane made a mistake, he would have to start over. If it was an utter disaster, Maester Myles would make him write it out ten times for each house and take it to be inspected by his father. 

When Trystane felt like it, it was easy to do it with almost no mistakes.

_House Greyjoy of Pyke. We do not sow. The kraken._

_House Lannister of Casterly Rock. Here me roar. The lion._

_House Tyrell of Highgarden. Growing stronger. The rose._

_House Arryn of the Eyrie. As high as honor. The falcon._

_House Baratheon of King's Landing and the Stormlands. Ours is the fury. The stag._

It only seemed like a few months ago that he knew two more ( _House Stark of Winterfell. Winter is coming. The direwolf. House Tully of Riverrun. Family, Duty, Honor. The trout)_ but those were great houses no more.

There was another as well, forever etched in his memory and yet only his father ever asked him to recite it.

_House Targayen. Fire and blood. The three-headed dragon_ .

He was a child, lying in his bed, his eyes weighed down with sleep. His father was sitting beside him. It must have been a long time ago because father could still walk on his own, could move his hands without cringing in pain, could even lift up Trystane and throw him into the air.

“Say it, lad.”

He repeated his own house words ( _ Unbowed, unbent, unbroken _ and yet he could think of no one in his family who those words applied to. Perhaps his uncle, but he was dead. Or maybe one of his cousins but one day they might be broken as their father was), stumbling over them  childishly. Under his father's watchful eyes, he would begin to stammer, mixing up his words (“Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Fire and blood. Unbent, unbroken, unbowed. Fire and blood. Unbroken, unbowed, fire and blood”) and strangely, Prince Doran would not correct him.

Trystane fell asleep then, with visions of dragons and direwolves dancing in his mind.

He awoke hours later to the sound of hushed voices and loud footsteps outside his room.

“The prince said to bring her to her chambers, send for the maester!”

“What of the princess?”

“Ser Manfrey has taken her to her cell.”

Trystane suddenly felt afraid. He prayed that Ser Gascoyne was nearby, that his sworn shield would run into his room at any moment and take him to his father's rooms.

He fought the urge to the hide under his bed, as he would when he was child. _I'm a man of twelve now and a prince of Dorne, I will not hide in my father's own palace_ , he thought. And yet he slipped out from beneath his covers and slowly slid from his bed, feeling as though his ears would burst from the sound of his heart beating.

“Quickly, move!”

It was Areo Hotah's voice.

Trystane opened the door a fraction of an inch so that with his face pressed against the wall, he could see all the way down the hall with his right eye. To his surprise, the door to Myrcella's rooms was flung open. He could see men running around, one of them his own Gascoyne. Then, Areo finally came into view, holding a listless body in his arms.

He knew he should look away, that it could not be something dishonorable with Gascoyne and Areo there and yet he felt as though his feet were no longer his own, as though he were sinking into quicksand and was terrified to move for fear of falling deeper.

As Areo turned to fit through the door, Trystane saw a mess of yellow curls stained caked with blood. He readjusted his hold and the golden head, limp and slack, was turned in Trystane's direction. Even in the darkness of the night, Trystane could see the glistening of blood everywhere – on Areo's armor, on the floors, oozing slowly from the seemingly lifeless face. Even to call it a face would be generous – it was a mangled mess of skin, bone, and flesh, reminding him of the insides of a deer, something his uncle killed on one of his hunts.

Suddenly, in the midst of the blood, two green sparks shone dimly. It seemed as though she was staring straight at him, asking something of him he did not understand, begging for comfort, or help, or mercy.

_Quentyn would run to her_ , he thought,  _I should do as he would._

Myrcella began weeping, her small body shaking with sobs which made her wince and pain. Trystane stood transfixed as Areo hurried her into her rooms and Maester Myles ran in a few moments later.

He stayed there for what seemed like an eternity, waiting and watching – for what he did not know. He only moved back to his bed when the sun had risen, light illuminating his room, and he could hear Ser Gascoyne's steady footsteps coming down the hall to wake him for his lessons.

\--------------- 

“Ser Gerold Dayne attacked Princess Myrcella and killed Ser Arys. Ser Balon Swann comes to take his place, he arrives within the week's end as will your cousins. He brings with him the skull of the man who murdered your uncle.” 

Trystane wanted to ask him of Arianne, of her friends who had disappeared from Sunspear and yet there was a severe look on his father's face which stilled his tongue.

Doran continued, “There will be a feast. Princess Myrcella will not be well enough to attend and perhaps you will choose to remain with her. You will also go visit her today, the maester says she is awake.”

“Yes, father,” Trystane mumbled.

Doran opened his mouth as if to speak again before deciding otherwise and dismissing him with a wave of his hand.

The things which he had seen a fortnight ago seemed almost like a dream, a strange vision or fevered mirage. He had even been half expecting her to break her fast with him in the morning, to joke and laugh as she always did. But he ate alone, and the door to Myrcella's rooms remained closed.

He could sense some grand deception, some scheme he could not understand. The guard had told him that Myrcella had redspots, but if she was in her room resting then how did the Darkstar attack her? Why would he? And what did Arianne and her friends have to do with all this?

His father knew but he had lied to him. Ser Gascoyne must know too and even though Trystane considered him as a friend, he knew his loyalty lay only with Prince Doran. He had heard Areo Hotah's voice that night too but you would get more from talking to a brick wall than asking Areo to reveal one of father's secrets.

It was strange not to see Ser Arys guarding her door. He had grown used to him, looking over them whenever they were playing, escorting Myrcella back to her rooms at the end of the day. Ser Gascoyne was fond of him as well – Trystane could tell by the way the two men would sometimes chuckle over some common jape as they stood guard, could tell by the grim look on Ser Gascoyne's usually sanguine face the morning after when he retrieved Trystane from his rooms.

Instead of Ser Arys, it was a Dornish guard who stepped aside and let him into Myrcella's rooms. She was sitting in a chair by her window, her feet propped up like father's always were. Almost all of her face was covered in bandages, except for one green eye which was bruised and swollen. Rosamund Lannister, her cousin, was in the corner sewing.

“Your betrothed is here, princess,” She announced.

Trystane approached her, standing by her left side so he was in her line of sight.

“Father told me what happened,” He said, softly.

“Gerold Dayne attacked me and killed Ser Arys,” She stated, not meeting his eyes.

_She lies to me too,_ he thought.

There was a silence. Trystane turned to face the window, looking out at the caravans and bazaars in the far distance.

“I shan't stay too long, I'm going to ask Ser Gascoyne if I may go riding today,” He muttered.

“You're angry aren't you?” She asked.

“What do I have to be angry about?” He snapped, with his back still to her.

Myrcella sighed, “Arianne swore me to secrecy--”

He interrupted, “You are  _my_ betrothed, not Arianne's. You're marrying me, not her. You're supposed to keep my secrets, not help everyone else to lie to me!”

Rosamund frantically collected her things and exited the room.

To his surprise, Myrcella began weeping, fat tears falling down her cheek and staining her bandages.

“You saw me yesterday, didn't you?” She cried, “You just stood there.”

“What was I supposed to do--”

There was another silence, thick with her tears and his shame.

“I was frightened,” He murmured.

“So was I.”

Trystane stepped closer to Myrcella once again, taking a handkerchief from beside her chair and using it to wipe the tears now collected atop her soaking bandage.

“The maester says there will be a scar,” She confessed, “He said it might not be too awful but I could tell from his face he was lying.”

“Quentyn says that scars are honorable, he says that they show you've proven yourself in battle. Now all who see your face will know that the Darkstar tried to kill you and you survived, a feat not many can boast of.”

Myrcella smiled, “You sound so wise.”

“You sound surprised,” Trystane chuckled

Myrcella laughed, her tears vanishing almost as soon as they appeared.

\---------------

They were playing in the sea that day under the watchful eyes of Ser Gascoyne and a retinue of Dornish guards. Once, a lifetime ago, they dug into the sand with their bare hands and tried to reach the water at the bottom, made mudpies and sand castles but now they simply strolled by the shore, their feet wading into an inch or two of water.

Mycella was wearing her veil as she had now grown accustomed to do. She wrapped one piece over her hair, and pulled another across her nose so that all that could be seen were her eyes. For the first few weeks after her injury, she covered herself with a thick cloth sent over from King's Landing but it made the Dornish heat unbearable so now she used the light fabrics sold in the bazaars in the shadow city.

To Trystane, it was a bewildering sight. He could see her eyes, clear and green, and her curls escaping the confines of the scarves and tumbling down her back. The faint outline of her scar was visible as well, and in the heat her mouth – one of the only features of her face left untouched by the Darkstar's blade – pressed against her veil. If he looked closely enough, Trystane could see beads of sweat on her upper lip.

They were telling each other stories of monsters of the deep and tales of sea creatures which they had learned in their childhoods when Trystane spotted the form of Areo Hotah, his broad shoulders and the shadow of his longaxe approaching in the distance. For some reason the sight of Areo, the man under whose watchful eyes and protection Trystane had been birthed, weaned, and grown, sent shivers down Trystane's spine, caused his stomach clenching in painful knots. He had a strange urge to run away, an urge he did not understand.

“Prince Trystane,” Areo announced, “You are needed by your father.”

Trystane nodded and turned to Myrcella, “I won't be long, wait here for me.”

“It would be best for the princess to return to her own rooms,” Areo interjected.

“It's alright, I'll see you when we dine together tonight,” Myrcella smiled, adjusting her veil as it got caught in the wind.

Trystane nodded and walked back to the palace with Areo. With every step, he felt his trepidation growing. As he was about to enter his father's solar, he felt Areo still beisde him and to his surprise, the guard leaned down to take Trystane's face in his hands.

“You are so much like your mother,” He whispered, “Have courage, little lad.”

A blink of an eye later he was back at his post, standing straight with his back to the door and his longaxe by his side. Trystane wondered if he had dreamed it all.

\---------------

There was a bird sitting on the ledge in the window of his father's room. A pretty thing with black feathers and yellow bristles. For the next few moments (or was it an hour? A day?), Trystane felt that he was that bird, that watcher, looking down as the scene progressed. He could see himself standing in front of his father, could see Arianne sitting on his right side, could see his father's eyes were red and Arianne's dark as ever. He could hear the words of his sister, something about a plot, a dragon queen, Gerris Drinkwater, about Meereen and Slaver's Bay. And then he heard Quentyn, dragons, fire, dead.

He watched as the bird spread its wings and flew out into the city. Suddenly, he was back in his own body and a repulsive stench was in his nostrils. He looked down and there was vomit on his shirt, on his hands, in a puddle by his feet.

A pair of strong hands were on his shoulders and Trystane was suddenly in his own rooms, being scrubbed of the filth and having fresh clothes pulled over his body. Then he was lying in bed and darkness enveloped the room.

He stared at the ceiling.

Someone opened his door, sending a short burst of light in his room before it was closed abruptly and the sound of footsteps echoed against the walls. For a strange, foolish moment, a hopeful second, he thought it was Gerold Dayne come to kill him.

The bed shifted slightly and he turned to see Myrcella laying beside him.

“I'm sorry about Quentyn,” She whispered.

“Quentyn is dead.”

“I know.”

She reached out to touch his arm.

“My brother is dead.”

He could suddenly feel the warmth of the tears on his face.

“My father's dead too, and my brother as well. It hurts like seven hells for a long time but slowly you'll start to feel better.”

He suddenly felt a pair of his lips on his own, the taste of strawberries mixing with the salt of his tears. It only lasted for a fraction of a second and then Myrcella slipped out of the room, gently closing the door behind him.

He was alone again, to dream of kisses and maidens, and fire and blood.


End file.
